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The guard leveled his gun right at Lucan’s face. “I know you have special privileges, but fuck you.”
Lucan leaned forward, puckered up, and kissed the muzzle of the weapon. “You’re so cute. But the Executioner needs to know that that human female with him? She’s his only way to Mozart. She’s the source down in Caldwell that he’s asked me to negotiate with. I brought her here to prove that we had the capacity to meet the supply she wants. We lose her, we lose all his business he planned for, paid for, is expecting, you know the drill.”
As light dawned on the guard’s Marblehead, that gun started to lower and Lucan shrugged. “If he’s just plugged her full of lead? He’s shit out of luck and he’s going to blame you for not telling him who she is. Better hope the holes are somewhere that doesn’t leak a lot—”
“Fuck,” the guard said as he went for the door and entered a code. “Sir, we have a problem—”
As the way was opened, both of the guards, and then Lucan and Apex, funneled into the Executioner’s private quarters. And what they saw was—
“Rio?” Lucan breathed.
In the center of the large open space, next to the army field desk that had been set up by the foot of a mattress . . . the human woman was standing over the dead body of the Executioner, the gun Lucan had given her in her hand.
She looked up—and did a double take, like seeing Lucan was the last thing she’d expected. Although as levels of shock-and-awe went, Lucan was feeling like he was totally winning in that department. Had she really just—
“He was going to kill me,” she announced. “It was justifiable homicide.”
Rio couldn’t tell who was more surprised. The four men who rushed into whatever the hell space she was in . . . or the man she’d just killed with two bullets to the heart.
The shooting had happened in the blink of an eye. She’d been marched into the room and the guy in black with the shaved head had stood up from that table over there—and looked at her as if she were fresh meat.
The cold happiness on his face had been something to remember. Especially as he’d taken out a knife with a blade as long as his arm.
After he’d been informed where she’d been found, he’d excused the two guards, and the sound of the lock getting turned had been like a coffin lid secured over her body.
So self-assured he’d been, so completely in control. And in spite of her mental confusion, she’d known she had only one chance, given that tremendous, sword-like weapon in his hand.
Out with the gun. Two shots just like she was drilling targets at the range: Right into the center of his chest.
Real blink-of-an-eye stuff.
In the aftermath, he’d stumbled backward, looking at his sternum like he was baffled at the fact that the lead slugs hadn’t bounced right off him or something. She hadn’t been interested in his death throes other than monitoring him to be sure that he didn’t get his hands on another weapon in his last three and a half seconds of life. After a couple of final twitches, he’d stayed still, and just as she’d wondered what the hell to do next—
The welcome party had burst in.
Luke jumped forward. “Are you all right?”
Rio was in his arms next.
She didn’t know who went for who first. She didn’t care. As she squeezed her eyes shut, she just held on to that strong, warm body, and breathed in his cologne, and felt gratitude for being alive.
Not that he wore cologne. God, he smelled like home . . .
Dimly, she was aware of a strange cracking sound. Then another. Followed by two duffle bags being dropped on the floor. Had he and Apex brought luggage?
Who cared. In this moment, Luke was what mattered.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” he said.
She pulled back and touched his face. Then came to her senses. “Not yet. I need to help—”
Rio didn’t finish the thought as something in the background caught her attention. Looking around Luke’s muscled arm, she blinked. A couple of times.
The two sounds she’d thought were bags hitting the floor had not been about any kind of Samsonite. Apex had done something dramatic to the two guards. The two men were both lying facedown—no, wait, their bodies were on their stomachs. Their heads were facing upward.
Meanwhile, the guy was walking over to the open door and calmly shutting it. Locking it. “We’ve got problems now.”
“More,” she corrected numbly. “We have more problems.”
As she stated the obvious, a series of Caldwell Police Department rules and regulations weaved their way around the fact pattern of everything that had just happened with the man and the big knife and the handgun she still had in her palm.
